


Fractured

by October_rust



Series: Fractured/Mending [1]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham Knight
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: The Arkham Knight rescues Nightwing from the Penguin.





	Fractured

“Had enough?”

Dick spits out blood, his jaw aching from the force of the blow. The ropes bite into his wrists and ankles, keeping him tied to the chair. Still, his lips curve into a charming grin, even though he can taste copper inside his mouth.

“Enough of what, Cobblepot?” he asks, making the smile as obnoxious as possible. “Have you even started with the whole 'roughing up' bit? C'mon, I'm getting bored here.”

The Penguin glares at him, one eye narrowing behind the monocle, his grip tightening on his umbrella.

“Keep flapping yer gums, pretty boy.” He turns to his goons, who are standing in a circle, toying with baseball bats and knives, and eyeing Dick like a piece of meat. “Looks like this little pansy still needs to learn some manners! Have at him, lads!”

Dick steels himself for more pain, more blood, and more bruised bones. The first man approaches him, a nasty glint in his eye, hand already clenched into a fist. He pulls it back, ready to throw a punch, but suddenly there's a commotion at the entrance to the vault.

All heads swing in the direction of the noise, as men start filing in, all of them wearing tactical gear, all of them armed.

Military training – it's obvious in their stance, the ease with which they handle their guns, their discipline, Dick notes. And then another man comes in and walks past the soldiers, who seem to stand at attention, their backs straight.

The leader.

The Arkham Knight.

He's tall, his shoulders broad, his stride confident. Dick can't tear his gaze away from the Knight, mesmerized by the deadly grace he's carrying himself with. Powerful chest, protected by an armor emblazoned with an 'A' symbol, strong thighs rippling under the fabric of his cargo pants with every step he takes, and that weird helmet with its eye slits glowing with blue light. Unsettling and fascinating both, the Knight commands attention from everyone in the room.

Even the Penguin looks uncertain as the man draws closer.

“Welcome, welcome” he says, full of false cheer. “I have everything you wanted, all prepared and packed. Got my money?”

The Knight looks down at him, the modulated, impersonal voice still managing to drip with disdain. “Of course, Cobblepot. I always keep my word.” And then he turns his head and that blue glare is directed straight at Dick.

The Penguin follows the direction of the Knight's gaze. “Oh, this? Don't worry about that. Just a little distraction. Caught meself a nosy bird.”

The Knight stares at Dick for a long, tense moment. An icy shiver runs down Dick's spine. “You know what, Cobblepot? I'll take him off your hands. You're not the only one who has a score to settle with him.”

The Penguin scowls. “That scum was spoiling my operations all over Blüdhaven. Gotta teach him a lesson.”

“I'll make it worth your while. Throw in a nice bonus.”

The Penguin considers it, sweeps his gaze over the Knight's men standing guard. If there's one thing he loves above all else, it's money, so it's not surprising that fear and greed win over the thirst for vengeance. “Deal.”

That's how Dick knows his fate is sealed.

And then that punch finally lands, and everything goes black.

***

Dick comes to with a start, his heart pounding.

“Easy,” the Knight says.

But it does nothing to calm the blind panic rising in Dick's chest, especially when he feels wet cloth swipe at his bruised mouth. His eyes fly open and he pushes away from the touch, sitting bolt upright, his back wedged defensively against the wall.

He takes stock of his surroundings.

It's a small, bare room. There's just a chair, some table, and a military cot, on which Dick and the Knight are currently sitting. No visible escape routes, except for a door with some kind of electronic lock.

So he was out long enough to be taken to the Knight's headquarters, Dick thinks, swallowing, trying to get himself under control.

His gaze lands on the Knight, drops to the cloth in his hand. No gloves, Dick observes, distracted. Long, elegant fingers, pale skin.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” the Knight says.

“Yeah, right,” Dick replies, his mouth faster than his caution, and almost immediately he curses himself for his recklessness. Damn his temper and the throbbing in his head. He shouldn't antagonize the Knight right from the start, now that he's defenseless and still trying to figure out his situation.

The Knight heaves a sigh and gets up. Then, he reaches up and releases the clasps of the helmet. He puts it down on the table, next to the medical supplies and a small metal bowl filled with water, and turns to look at Dick.

Everything freezes.

For a moment, Dick can only stare, his mind filled with static. No, it's not possible. It's not possible, they all saw the video, the shot at point blank range, the body crumpled on the floor, lifeless …

But Jason's eyes stare back at him, their deep blue color made even more striking by the long, dark eyelashes framing them. And even they aren't entirely familiar anymore, not with the way they study Dick, cold and dispassionate. No baby fat is left in Jason's face either, no traces of the gangly teen Dick used to know. Before him is a grown man. A grown, handsome man. High cheekbones, strong, defined jaw, a slight frown between his eyebrows. Firm lips, pressed into a straight line, and then Dick notices the scar, the angry white cuts marring Jason's cheek.

Oh, god, Jay. No.

His heart gives a painful lurch, as he looks at the mark, remembering Jason's tears, his pleading for mercy, for Batman, and the Joker's awful laugh behind the camera.

“Now,” Jason says, his voice deep yet still awfully young without the modulator. “Will you let me take care of your wounds?”

“Jason,” Dick manages to say past the lump in his throat, hoarse. “How ...”

Jason sits back down next to Dick, and brings the cloth to Dick's split lip. “Had a long fun stay at Arkham.” He dabs at the cut, the fingers of his other hand holding Dick's face still. Dick shudders at the gentle touch, the warmth. “Daddy dearest didn't come for me, after all.” And now there's bitterness in Jason's tone, biting, festering like an old wound. “Learned my lesson well.”

Despite the numbness, the shock scattering his thoughts, Dick protests, shaking his head. “No, Jason. The Joker sent us the tape, showed us that he killed you. We mourned you. We thought ...”

Jason's fingers dig into Dick's jaw, a warning. “Doesn't matter anymore.” He looks into Dick's eyes, his own gaze icy, piercing. “How are your ribs? Any fractures?”

“Just bruises. The suit took the worst of it,” Dick says, pushing away the sorrow, focusing on the matter at hand.

“Good. But I will send my medics to have a look, just in case.” Jason's tone is brusque again, all emotions reined in. “There's blood in your hair.”

Jason lets go of Dick, and turns to the table. He takes another cloth, wets it, and starts cleaning the crusted blood away from Dick's hair. It's cool against Dick's abused skull, the touch careful again, and Dick can't stifle the small sigh of pleasure.

“There, done,” Jason says, after a moment. “Nothing bad, looks like a shallow cut.”

He moves to stand, but Dick catches his wrist.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, feeling the strong pulse beat under his thumb.

Jason looks away, jaw tense. “Consider it paying back an old debt.” His eyes meet Dick's again, hard and unforgiving. “Now we're even.”

“No.”

The answer takes Jason by surprise, makes his eyes widen, melts away the impassive mask. Dick uses this distraction to bring Jason's hand to his own face and hold it there, against his cheek.

“No,” he repeats softly. “We miss you, Jason.” Without thinking, he turns his face, brushes his lips over the inside of Jason's palm. “Come home.”

He reaches out with his other hand, winding his arm around Jason's shoulders to pull Jason close to his chest. At first, Jason is stiff, still too stunned to react, but then his hand slides between Dick's shoulder blades, the touch slow and tentative. With a weary sigh, Jason bows his head and buries his face against Dick's neck.

“I can't,” he whispers. “It's too late for me, Dick.”

Dick simply tightens his hold, his fingers rubbing against Jason's nape in slow circles. If this is the one time, one stolen moment where he can have Jason back like that, warm and alive, in his embrace, then he's going to take it. Please, he thinks, desperate, please.

But of course it's not enough. After a while, Jason pulls away and stands up.

When he looks at Dick, his expression is inscrutable and distant again, the mask falling back into place.

In silence, he picks up the helmet and puts it back on. Dick watches him go to the door, helplessness and grief choking him like a steel collar.

The door opens, but the Knight pauses, his back ramrod straight.

“It's too late,” he says over his shoulder, voice empty. “I have work to do. And you're not going to interfere, Nightwing. It's between me and Batman.”

The door closes behind the Arkham Knight, and Dick is cold and alone again.


End file.
